


A Chance to Hope (Rewrite)

by CompassUniverse



Series: What May Change [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Already complete, Alternate Universes, Asexual Characters, Betrayal, Conversions, Death, Demisexual Characters, Dialogue in color, Doomed Timelines, Edits!, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gonna add the rest of the characters as they appear cuz there are so many, Grimdarkness, Horrorterrors - Freeform, Is this a remix or inspired if it's something I wrote?, M/M, Multi, Mutants, New quirks, Original Characters - Freeform, Other, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Rewrite of Chance to Hope, Sequel, Seriously it needed them, Shapeshifter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2019-08-19 02:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassUniverse/pseuds/CompassUniverse
Summary: Lyllani Arttana might be the last shapeshifter. Her session was doomed from the beginning. She doesn't know if any of the others who played are alive anymore. They split up to look through the realities for a place to call home long ago. The horrorterrors have been whispering in her ears for so long that she might actually go to them soon. But then she sees a meteor, and senses the life on it, and dares to hope.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, if you haven't read the original, that's cool, and if you have read the original, also cool. I'm rewriting it now that it's finished and I know where I wanted it to go, because, frankly, I only really focused on this piece because of the positive reception and was writing kind of blind. This one is better. I know where I'm going. I know how to foreshadow properly. I think it flows better, and I'm kinda torn between getting a backlog or just doing it when I can, which will probably be how it goes since I've got college and also no money, so scholarships are going to take up a lot of the time studying doesn't.

Your name is Lyllani Arttana. You are a telun, maybe one of the last, a player of Sswap, also one of the last. You know one other who you doubt would ever die, but you can’t say the same for any others of your race. Though you identify as female, you could physically form yourself into any being or body that you wish. Oddly enough, your true form suggests no gender at all, appearing overall identical to the others of your race.

You do not ever use that form, though, because you would most likely die if you did. It is a pathetically weak body, frail and breakable, coated with a soft layer of silver fuzz and a black skin that do nothing to protect the collection of thin, bendable bones that make you excellent at changing your form to others.

Your friend, who is dead now, you know, always said that your skeletons were fascinating. Able to contort and shift into almost anything. You don’t know what the almost is, yet. You hope you don’t ever find out.

At the moment, you are a cherub. Cherubs, you were told before you became one and knew after you took the form, are able to move freely through dimensions and realities. They can fly through space using a power of their own, though you are most likely also protected by a power that you gained at the time of your non-permanent death.

You don’t like flying through space. It’s cold and hot at the same time, pressing down on you and pulling out, and has a disturbing odor of burnt meat. But it must be done. Your reality collapsed behind you and if you want to find somewhere safe to live, you need to do this. No more silver stains, no more worlds glitching away, no more neon letters in the sky. No more whispers.

At first, you thought the whispers had something to do with your connection to the surviving members of your group. You and your brother always had a connection, not one bordering on voices but strong enough that you could find him when you needed to. You may not have been as close to the other survivors, but maybe your experiences connected you.

But your brother would never say the things these voices do. Sure, he’d fret and worry and hold onto you to stop you from fighting, but he would never be like them.

They’ve forgotten you. They don't love you. They just sent you off so that you were out of the way. It's your fault they died. You failed them. You are no healer. You will only be safe with us. Come to us. We will love you. Come to us.

You know not to listen. Not to trust them. It’s common sense, really. But it doesn’t help that they’re right. You’re a Sylph of Life. The ultimate healer. The one who should have kept everyone alive in a game that you only played for another chance at life.

Ten of you were supposed to play. Two never made it into the game. The rest, even the ones you were close enough to save, didn’t make it. Three others. Three who you know never expected you to do what you did. You’re a failure. You didn’t save anyone. How can you call yourself a healer when you-

You slow to a stop in the darkness. You don’t look at your claws, heavier and dusted with silver that isn’t really there. Even if you had blood on your hands, it would slip right off, clinging to itself but never to anything else. You still want to curl up and cry. Or maybe explode. You feel like you could explode. Or sleep.

You’re so tired.

Something in the space ahead of you moves, but it isn’t massive like you expected for some reason. It’s small. And purple. Very purple.

You fly closer, following its small, slow motion. As you get closer, you can see that it’s an alien, which isn’t a surprise, pacing back and forth on a large meteor, which is more of a surprise. The meteor looks like it once had a community on it and you wonder if it was inhabited by players like you who reached god tier just to wonder if you would be alone forever, though maybe they didn’t chose to split up. Maybe they started to answer the voices. Or maybe it was just a construct of the game.

The purple garbed alien doesn't notice you as you land on the meteor and shift into an almost perfect replica of his form. A troll, from Alternia. A nice thing about being a telun is that when you shift into another race, you get a little bit of knowledge. It’s a survival trait that lets you know how to thrive, if you use the information right.

You know how the blood of trolls dictates their position in the caste, that they have four definitions of romance and what those definitions are, matespiritship, the equivalent of telun love but without the same permanence, moirallegiance, a method of maintaining comfort and keeping the other both from harm and from causing harm, kismesissitude, the challenge of having a rival, proving your skills against there’s, crushing them so that they rise and try to beat you again, and auspisticism, a third in a kismesissitude, making sure the relationship doesn’t fall to something less like rivalry and more like torture or hatred. You know that they’re they’re essentially insects with more complex functioning internal organs, which doesn’t really matter to you since your organs change their shapes without changing their functions, but it tells you how to best protect yourself against them.

Turning into a cherub taught you how to fly with wings instead of with god tier power. When you turned into a meirax during the game to try to help in the fight against the final boss, you did it so that you could know the best ways to activate your metallic coat to protect the others. You were successful in that battle, but you ended up using that form in ways other than what you planned.

You transform again. You are lucky. Most of the time, rapid transformations are painful. You think that being Sylph of Life helps, healing yourself so quickly that the transformation pain is gone in an instant, but you’ve always been a quick healer.

Your clothes don't change from your god tier uniform except to make the life symbol on your chest turn silver like your blood, matching how trolls mark themselves with their own blood colors. Delicate fairy wings unfurl at your back, trailing silver glitter. The soft grays and greens on your outfit move to color your wings, too. Your horns change to look like the larger curve of the Life symbol, curving outward at first and with a small curl at the tip. They weigh more than you expected, but it's too late to make them shrink because the high blood has turned around to pace back toward you and is staring.

For a horrible moment, you think you don’t remember how to speak. The voices rise to a shriek, incomprehensible but clearly distressed by something, cursing and promising at the same time, and it’s them that gives your memory the prompting you need.

“Hi. I’m Lyllani.” Your voice sounds strange to your ears, close to the voices in the faint rasp in the back of your throat, but different in the pitches that are created by your troll tongue meeting your Gift of Gab badge as you speak.

The troll pulls a gun out of nowhere and it takes you another moment to remember what a specibus is, then a moment more to remember what a sylladex is. You barely used your sylladex in the game because of a prank, or something, and you have been flying for a while, and it’s not like you had signal and could watch movies, nor was there anything for you to fight with any one of the classes in your strife specibus.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?”

You’re a little surprised that he doesn’t ask what you want, but he did just ask you to repeat your name, so maybe there’s something else to it that you’re missing. “I’m Lyllani,” you repeat. “I came from out there. I’m looking for somewhere safe.” You motion at the space, suddenly aware of the artificial atmosphere around you.

Moving was clearly a bad idea, because the high blood only lifts his gun more. In an attempt to soothe, non-flirtatiously, you raise your empty prongs and spread your wings just slightly. Shock darts across his face and his finger slides slightly on the gun. A bolt of light shoots out at you and part of your mind screams _panic!_

By the time the rest of your mind has caught up, you’ve absconded into some kind of hallway, definitely not lost. You know it’s not the same as the meteors in your session, but it must be a game construct.

You've seen a few things you recognize, but it isn't until you stumble across a transportilizer and find a room that looks exactly like the ectobiology lab from your session that you stop. You stare into the room, seeing broken glass and spilled paradox gel where there is none. Silver blood does not stain the ground, and Treckta's wide blue eyes do not stare unseeingly at you.

You have to force your paws to carry you forward again, then you have to wonder when you became a meirax. You don’t question it much, though. It’s a good form. One that has saved others. Killed your friend.

You hate what you know. Turning into a troll told you what the voices are. Horrorterrors. Gods of troll kind. Massive. Eternal.

No. Wrong. Come to us. You need us. We need you.

That howl makes you rub at your ears with your paws, the grating agony of it wailing even after the presence in your mind fades.

You run, like that will leave the pain behind. Your paws thump steadily, claws clicking and echoing, and you do not think. You don't let yourself think.

You don't think about the chance that you'll never see your clutchmate again. You don't think about how Arcatha, Maid of Light, curled in on herself when the battle was over and you all knew that eight had become four. You don't think about Pelleon, Rogue of Space, trying to reassure you as you cannot make the blood stop pouring from his chest, your hands still stained with the lifeblood of the Seer of Time.

Something makes you stop. It takes you a moment, but then your ears twitch when you hear paws approaching. It’s only four of them, but they sound light enough that the nurturing nature of the meirax probably picked it up as an odd kit that needs protecting.

“AC approaches the mysterious kitty!”

Your forked tail switches as your process that. It’s…something. Definitely something. Your coat hardens and you sit, wrapping your tail around your paws.

“AC stretches out one paw to the mysterious kitty.”

From the corner of your vision, you see a small troll girl in a hood not unlike the head of a meirax. Her horns are like the ears of a blarin, and even though the sign on her shirt is green, olive, specifically, she’s wearing enough blue that you’d bet her moiral is that color. She moves closer, reaching toward you, and a meirax urge to scoop her up by her hood and carry her to your nonexistent den where she’ll be safe and warm crops up. You ignore it, stretching your neck to allow her to touch your nose.

On a real meirax, her hand would be tiny. On you, it’s still pretty small, but you’re also much smaller than a normal meirax. She purrs and steps toward you, moving into the curve of your neck even though she shouldn’t actually fit there.

“AC purrs in delight and nuzzles closer to the kitty,” she narrates. You allow your coat to soften, deciding that if she was going to threaten you, she’d probably tell you first. She squeaks in delight at the change and you have to stifle the part of you that is very loudly insisting she is a kit that needs protection. “Where did you come from, kitty, AC asks?”

You look at her, then adjust your body so that you can speak. Technically, you’re speaking Alternian, so in the end the Gift of Gab was probably useless. “Space. I flew here. I’ve been flying around for a long time.”

She doesn’t recoil, but her whole body tenses when you speak. She inclines her head for a moment, maybe mulling over your words, then she twists her head around to meet your eyes. Your heterochromia isn’t a problem. You rather like it, even if it labels you a mutant. You do, though, know that among trolls, it’s usually a sign of psionics. After a moment of her intense staring, she pulls a husktop from her sylladex and opens a message board.

You watch over her shoulder, not actually reading the blue messages in one tab and gray, blocky messages in the other. Her tag starts with AC, which must be why she narrates like that. It makes more sense than it being her name, at least. She looks at you again, then at the messages and types some more in the blue box. The gray box pops up and she clicks it, typing there. Then she minimizes it and looks at you, eyes expectant.

There might be a question in the blue box, but you hadn’t been letting your eyes focus enough to actually read it. Veritan always told you that reading over anyone’s shoulder was rude. Instead, you ask, “Can I please use that?”

She hesitates, but then clicks her messaging app, changes her information to offline, and signs out. “AC hesitates, but then hands it over and trusts that the space kitty won’t break it,” she tells you intently, eyes bright.

When she offers the device, you nudge her upright and shift again, body changing into that of a troll. Your horns are a more comfortable size with that shift and you absently commit this version of the form to memory, taking the husktop. She stares at you, but burrows willingly against your side when you don’t make any move to hide what you’re doing from her. It is her husktop, after all, and the contact is strangely comforting. One of your wings wraps around her without thought.

There are nine names on the trollslum when you log into Trollian, noting that Pelleon’s all-access-pass to chatting apps still works. You scroll down so that you don’t have to see six of them, leaving a chunk of white space beneath blackTuron, chirpShock, and littleDancer.

You pick your brother’s handle first. He’d developed a love of turons from books and then his consorts were the same beasts, so it seemed fitting. They’re very similar to your image of Alternian hoofbeasts, but turons are definitely rivals in aggression, and also turons are on fire. blackTuron hasn’t logged on in four cycles and his location can’t be found.

Have you really been flying for four cycles? You shudder at the thought, realizing with a start that you’re eight.

The olive troll presses closer to you and you take a deep breath, pushing the distress from your mind. She looks at you, then at the husktop again. “What are you doing, AC asks, peering over the kitty-troll’s shoulder.”

You adjust so that she can see the names you’ve scrolled up to. “I’m looking at my…friends, and my clutchmate, to see if any of them have been online.” Technically, it’s not right to say friends. Maybe hatefriends would be right, but you don’t really think of your relationship with the other two on the same level. “Thank you for letting me use this,” you add, clicking on littleDancer. She hasn’t been active for four cycles either, but unlike Veritan’s, her location can’t be revealed.

“AC decides to stop roleplaying, because she has more questions and she wants to talk seriously, and meowbeasts can’t talk.” The troll sits up slightly, bumping her horns on your chin. You chirp automatically, a troll reaction, and you both freeze. Your face warms, but the troll just giggles and adjusts more comfortably. “My name is Nepeta!”

You click on chirpShock and he hasn’t been active for four cycles and his location can’t be found. “I’m Lyllani.” You’re not sure why Arcatha’s information was different, and you don’t really want to scroll up and check the others.

“Why’d you come here?” Nepeta asks, watching as you make a memo. “Did you lose the game, too? Do they all share the same medium?”

You shake your head. “We played, too; these names on my slum were my coplayers. We’re shapeshifters, so when our session died we went looking for somewhere to survive.” You start the memo.

toxicRebirth RIGHT NOW opened memo on board Location seekers. Check in.

toxicRebirth [TR] has joined the memo  
TR: Hello. I wasnt expecting to be the first one to find somewhere with signal and also presumably hope.  
TR: Im currently on a meteor with dimensional location given in the bottom of my screen and presumably on my profile information as i have not turned off location tracking. It has some alternian trolls on it and one of them is letting me use her husktop.

You offer the husktop to Nepeta and she brightens, reaching out eagerly and typing something. You turn it back toward you and your lips twitch at what she wrote.

TR: :33 < *AC purrs and meows a greeting to TR and her furriends!!*  
TR: I wasnt aware how long weve been searching. I hope none of you listen to the horrorterrors as trolls call the creatures that whisper in the space.  
LD: hlyelllanpipmleease hahahHAHAHA sssssssssssssinnnngffaORadaaame

You pause. The message pings in the back of your head like puzzles involving code do, but you’re too disturbed by the actual message to go into it. There wasn’t a system message to tell you that she’d entered, which was strange enough, but she still isn’t online or active, and the message itself, encoded or not, looks like gibberish to your startled eyes.

Nepeta makes a soft noise that you aren’t sure how to define and you jolt, reaching out to type again.

TR: Arcatha are you alright. You arent logged in and your message is concerning regardless.  
LD: hahahaHAHAHAahahahelpahahahahHAHAHAHA

You don’t have to be a fan of codes to spot the _help_ in that. You’re aware of the worried click in your throat as you think, trying to remember ways that you’re supposed to be able to calm people. Names, right? Names help.

TR: Arcatha where are you. Are you around others.  
TR: Are you hurt arcatha. Are you in a dreambubble.  
TR: I will try to help you if you can tell me where i can find you. Please talk to me arcatha.  
LD: you COUldnT HElp aNY Of us WHY wouLD I let YOU helP ME

You stall again. She’s right. You can’t help anyone, and even if you try, nothing happens. You shut your eyes against an image of Pelleon’s dull eyes. Ketrian’s body lying against the wall missing his smile, his blood a trail on the wall of his nest. Nepeta’s very still against you, but you think it’s because you’re shaking, not because she’s just unnaturally still.

You open your eyes and look at her, seeking something, anything, alive. She looks back at you, eyes shiny and bright, yellow and gray that’ll eventually become the color on her shirt. You force yourself to still and look at the husktop again, aware of the tension in your claws. But, wait, that’s not right.

TR: Is warrien or fearran with you. You are using his quirk if he is not using it you are and i believe you called it clunky and indelicate and that seems unlike you.  
TR: Although this situation is unlike you. If you are not alone can your companion please explain and give me their condition.  
LD: hahahahaHAHAHhahahaHA  
LD: noNOnoNOnoNOSTOP hahahahahahAHAHAAALAAYAALAALAAAAANAAIAA

littleDancer [LD] has exploded.

TR: What. I dont know what to do.

toxicRebirth [TR] has left memo Location seekers. Check in.

You push the device away and press your claws to your face, mind scrambling for something, anything, that would get that system message without the one, horrible possibility that comes to mind. Nepeta takes the husktop gently and clicks around, probably signing back into her account.

“Please tell me she didn’t do it,” you plead, and Nepeta blinks uncertainly.

“AC doesn’t know what you mean,” she answers softly, voice sad.

You drop your hands completely, letting them lie in your lap. You’re exhausted. In a flat, emotionless voice that fits your typing quirk, you say, “She might have turned into something like your husktop. Biological. It’s dangerous. We can get viruses like that.” You press your claws around your blue eye, shutting both eyes tightly. “It’s actually used to enslave mutants.”

Nepeta’s eyes are on you, you’re certain. “Mutants?” You can hear her claws pause in their steady ticks on the husktop.

Numbly, you tell her, because what point is there in hiding it when anyone who’d do anything about it is dead? “Everyone in my slum is a mutant. Including me. We played for a better chance at life. For a chance. We wouldn’t have had one otherwise.”

Nepeta’s eyes are still on you when you open your own, looking through your gold eye since your blue is still mostly covered. “Sometimes I write about mutants in hiding,” she says.

You laugh, dropping your claws away from your eye. “Yeah? Well, with teluns, ours are usually pretty visible. This eye is normal. This one isn’t. Tells everyone who sees me that I’m a mutant; even tells them what I can do. Let’s them know that I’d be a great spy if they could break my mind.” The words feel foul as soon as you say them and you wrap your arms around yourself, looking away from her.

After a moment, Nepeta huffs and says, “My furriends think I’m lying about you!”

You laugh at her indignant tone and reach out. “Can I see?”

Nepeta hands it over without hesitation and you lift your arm automatically as she moves to curl against you. It’s a group chat, with both the gray text and the blue that’s probably her moiral. You read the most recent message first, glancing at the settings to see if you want to try to change it to your account since Nepeta didn’t actually log you out.

CT: D --> While I am usually willing to a%ept your games, the premise of a ‘space kitty that turned into a purretty troll’ is simply ludi% and I see no point in engaging further in what appears to be hoofbeast play

Okay. Wow. You appreciate the purretty comment, but this guy has a serious stick up his nook. Or her.

AC: Is the fish on this. The purple fish.

It’s bizarre seeing your text in green, and it’s only after sending that you realize that it’s probably bad to refer to one so highblooded as _fish_. Too late to fix it, though, so you just set to changing her account to hers without leaving the memo.

CT: D --> I have STRONG feelings against seeing Nepeta's text in words that are not Nepeta's and order you to cease immediately  
TR: That better. Pelleon would have a field day with this living tech which means nothing to you but i feel its worth commenting anyway.  
CG: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE? NO, WAIT, DON’T TELL ME, YOU’RE THE SPACE MEOWBEAST AREN’T YOU. WHY CAN’T ANYTHING EVER BE NORMAL? INSTEAD I GET TO BE SURROUNDED BY MORONS.  
CT: D --> Language  
TR: Hey i dont know what you want from me shouty. Im from space and i know i cant do anything about it but if you really want to try bringing my session back from the dead be my guest.  
TR: So anyway is the purple fish on this memo. He shot at me so he can prove i exist.  
CG: ERIDAN? FUCK, NO, THAT WHINY BULGESACK IS UP MOPING ABOUT HIS EX.  
CG: THOUGH I GUESS IT DOES EXPLAIN HOW YOU’D KNOW HE WAS HERE AND COULD PROVE YOUR EXISTENCE IF YOU SAW HIM UP THERE SO I HAVE TO ACCEPT YOUR EXISTENCE. CONGRATULATIONS. I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY.  
TR: Actually im lyllani. Im also not usually happy anymore.  
CG: WELL FUCK ME IN THE BULGE THAT’S JUST THE MOST PITIFUL FUCKING THING I’VE HEARD THIS SWEEP.

You’re not sure if he’s being serious, and you don’t know how he’s react if he was. You don’t have to answer, though, because the system pings and even before you read the message you see the color. Unless there’s another troll using gray, it’s Veritan!

blackTuron [BT] has responded to the memo  
BT: lyllAni? the system connected me here. Are you Alright?  
CG: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE? THIS IS A PRIVATE MEMO.  
TR: I am fine and i believe i am currently safe. I hope that you are not currently a husktop.  
CT: D --> What sort of creature is a t00ron  
BT: i Am not. i found An Alchemitizer And cAptchlogued it. ArcAthA is deAd And i used it to mAke A coutAn. i Am going to follow the trail of her deAth And hope thAt it was unjust or unheroic.  
CG: I AM SO FUCKING DONE WITH THIS SHIT!  
CG has banned BT from responding to this memo  
BT: turons were my consorts. on my rAther distressing plAnet they were An unusuAl wonder.  
[BT] attached file lAndofwoolAndblood.img  
CG: HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU BACK?  
TR: Our rogue of space removed any blockades so that we would have conversations without fear of secrets. Overall privacy was still in place but memos were never private and all voices were heard.  
CT: D --> I will add you to my slum so that we may further discuss these creatures  
BT: oh wow i would reAlly rAther you didn’t but okAy look At you go.  
CT: --> Those creatures are very STRONG and I am finding myself in need of a new towel  
BT: i genuinely cAnnot tell whAt to mAke of you.  
CG: HOW DID THIS BECOME MY LIFE?  
BT: lyllAni i do not believe this is the best plAce for you. i do not wAnt you to be in dAnger And you AppeAr to be Around peculiAr chArActers.  
TR: Dont worry veritan ill be fine. So far only one of them has tried to threaten me and i think that was mostly because i startled him.  
TR: Besides nepeta is quite nice and even if she wasnt i think that ive established that i can take care of myself. Or did you forget that with my claws alone i cut through the armor of 

You stop, hitting the send button automatically before you can stop yourself. You can feel yourself shaking again and it’s truly disconcerting with Nepeta so solid and still beside you. You aren’t sure where you were going with that statement. You’ve cut though the armor of…your friend? Your enemy? Someone who once wove little ribbons through your fur and then strode forward to take a turn in giving you a visual aid in your attempts to learn different strifekinds, laughed when the blade was yanked from his hand by a wire of his one true love, dipped her into a kiss and affectionate nuzzle, and stuck a blade through her back just a week later.

You can’t breathe. The room is too small and you can feel blood on her prongs, coating your arms, the dragging impact through your claws and you have a brief, wild thought about how unheroic it’s going to be if you suffocate in a suddenly collapsing room, then something touches your face.

You gasp and recoil, a candelabra falling into your hands at the random summon. You stare at the six prongs, choking on air for a moment before Nepeta gently touches your face again, eyes wide. You drop the candelabra and it vanishes back into your strife specibus. She’s holding the husktop, too, bracing it on her knees as she lowers her hand.

“Isn’t CT your moiral?” you ask, because apparently you’re going to immediately point out that shooshing you like that is cheating instead of thanking her.

“I told Equius that you were furry upset and he said it was okay. I had to do it sometimes while we were playing the game, too,” she answers softly.

Just from her tone, you can hear that she’s asking you to respond. Give her a reason. Talk to her. Maybe even offering to pile. Instead, you take the husktop. She lets you. There’s another tab, a private conversation with her and Equius, apparently, that your brother probably could have accessed if he hadn’t repeated your name several times and then been yanked into a practically pitch argument with CG.

You skim it, letting the excessive caps locks calm you.

TR: I apologize. I am fine but i believe that time spent around the horrorterrors has weakened my mental state.

Nepeta frowns at you, an expression clearly saying that she thinks that you’re definitely lying. You don’t look at her.

TR: Veritan please be carerful when you look for arcatha. I dont want to lose you to them or to anyone.  
BT: LYLLANI! you left And i wAs AfrAid something hAppened!  
BT: horrorterrors? i see. i will be conscious of closing my mind to them. i will keep this coutAn Active so pleAse do not hesitAte to contAct me.  
TR: I will. Be well.  
BT: And you.  
CG has banned BT from responding to this memo  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK. I DIDN’T DO THAT. WHY DOES IT SAY THAT?  
TR: That seems like a lie but okay. At least our conversation was done.  
CG: FUCK YOU, I DIDN’T DO IT! I’D TELL YOU TO YOUR FACE IF YOU WEREN’T SOMEWHERE OFF ON THIS BULGEFORSAKEN METEOR.  
CT: D --> Actually I should like to hear of your d00med session if Nepeta shall bring you to the recreational r00m   
TR: Fine. Ill get there.

You push the husktop at Nepeta without closing out of it, which is overall rather rude, but you’re too busy pressing your prongs over your ears to drown out the sounds of horrorterrors whispering in your ears. You quickly realize that it’s useless and stand, glancing up at the ceiling and considering how many lines of defense you have between yourself and them. You don’t like your odds.

When you start walking, Nepeta follows, eventually moving to lead. She doesn’t talk, but she doesn’t seem disappointed in you for not going for her pale offer. That’s probably for the best. Instead, you stare at her horns and think about how their coloring is weirdly familiar.


	2. Chapter 2

When Nepeta leads you into a large room with a single couch and what might be a kitchen in one corner, you're immediately greeted by a troll with short, stubby horns and a gray sign stomping up to you and shouting, "I didn't block him!"

You stare at him for a moment, then something seems to switch inside your head and you tip back your head and laugh. The troll makes a series of angry noises but you let the laughter run its course, a little surprised by the weight it seems to lift from your chest. You finally look back at him and smile. "CG, I take it? I'm Lyllani."

CG's scowl fades slightly and he crosses his arms, squinting at you. "Karkat. You're god tier?"

You look down at your outfit, your smile falling and the twisting weight creeping back onto your shoulders. "Yeah." You have a brief image of your dreams, fleeting though they were in space, and seeing yourself, somehow knowing that she was who you were before you died and came back fused with your dreamself, or however that works. You remember dying. Does she?

"And how many of your players reached this point, out of how many total?" a deeper voice asks, and you turn to see a troll with Nepeta sprawled across his shoulders. He's oddly shiny, and one of his horns is broken. Just looking at it makes you wince, or it would have if you hadn't already been reacting like that because of the question.

"Eight of us played. Six god-tiered." You don't tell him that the power is useless. You don't tell him that tiering only made you come back; it didn't give you another chance. It extended the inevitable. If anything, it's a curse. You don't tell him that ten of you were supposed to play.

"And total survivors?" Nepeta rolls off of his back and prowls over to Karkat, narrating under her breath.

"Just four."

Your response makes Nepeta stop. She stares at you, apparently no longer interesting in her hunt. You wonder if it's something on your face or in your voice that killed her appetite, but you'd rather not ask yourself what she can see in you.

The troll studies you, then nods, crossing his arms. "I see. I am Equius. We shall be seated and continue this conversation." He turns and walks to a couch, Nepeta twisting to follow him.

You trudge after them and drop into a chair. It's a hideous thing, but surprisingly comfortable. It's comfortable enough, in fact, that your weariness sweeps over you again and you have to dig your claws into your palm to stop yourself from dozing off right there. Karkat glances between the chair that you're on and the couch that Nepeta and Equius are taking up, then turns around and grabs a chair from in front of a table. The legs screeching, he drags it to the group of you and turns it so that its back is facing you. With that, he takes a seat, setting his arms across the back of the chair.

Equius is clearly trying not to look. He's focusing straight ahead, not even looking at you, and Nepeta curls on his lap with a limp-bodied ease that you wish could be contagious. Even battling the urge to close your eyes, you feel like every muscle in you is stretched to breaking, stiff enough that your entire body will shatter if you're struck. You look over at Karkat, trying to turn the spark of amusement you feel at his position into something more tangible, but it's doused by the ever present whispers.

"Why," Equius says slowly, his eyes finally moving to you with a mistrustful, calculative glint, "did your session fail?"

You blink at him. Right to the point, then. A laugh tries to bubble out of you, but even if the situation suited the reaction, you don't think it would be able to come out. "Players died before completing their world quests," you say, and two barren, unformed worlds flash in your mind's eye. Then you think of the room, of Treckta's unseeing eyes, and add, "Among other things."

Karkat's lips purse and his eyes narrow. If he's trying to be intimidating, it isn't working. He's too small, shorter, even, than you, and his ridiculous, backward seated position, and baggy sweater, complete with a gray sign, only makes him look like a posturing sarin. "What about your seer? Or a time player?" he asks, and you realize that it's not intimidation that he's going for, but some combination of confusion and concern. "Didn't you have one that could prevent it?"

You think of Jountos's smile, his hand ruffling your hair as he pulls your brother into a half hug, certain of your victory. You think of him pinning your first friend to the ground and laughing, and of **The Choice** you made that achieved nothing. "Our Seer of Time made sure it happened," you say, and you don't know if you should feel sorrow or rage at the admission. You shift, pulling your knees to your body and wrapping your arms around them. "He changed, after we defeated the King. We'd made it too easy, maybe, all of us prototyping useless things, so the system grabbed our biggest player and..." You make a vague gesture with your hand, too slow to be anything violent even though you can't find better words. That battle against the King was something you considered often, in the abyssal darkness. You wondered if you should have made the sprites stronger. If you should have prototyped something other than a pen and a rat, so that you could have had a chance at death during the battle, rather than time to simmer and wait and, finally, to turn on each other.

Equius clears his throat and you lift your eyes to him. "Nepeta stated that you were a large purrbeast when she first found you."

It's not a question, not really, but you understand what he's saying. "I'm a telun. Shapeshifter. You've probably met a few before but never known it. We can look like anything, or anyone, at least as long as the eyes match." You idly tap beneath your mismatched eyes.

Karkat scoffed. "I think I'd know if I met someone who wasn't a troll."

It's easy to change into an almost perfect copy of him. If you could access your syllabus, you'd put on sunglasses and look at him flatly from behind them, just to show that the only sign you two aren't one and the same can be hidden so easily. The only thing that could give us away is our blood color," you say while he gawks. "The best spies can imitate the body language and speech patterns of anyone. Some even get their eyes surgically altered to always match." It was a strength that made identities a touchy subject. A film came out that followed a fictional soldier, released from duty but unable to remember her own name or personality, but Veritan stopped it before you could see the end. You learned later that its maker and all of the actors had been publicly executed for their involvement in something that dared to speak ill of the government and the conquering war.

You return to the troll form you've made to be your own, adjusted with some of the softness of Nepeta's face that evens out the sharp features that you'd drawn on from the high blooded troll. Equius dabs his forehead with a towel that's already saturated and you realize that his shininess is sweat.

"Spies," he repeats, and, again, it isn't a question.

You elaborate anyway, because there always needs to be some exposition in a story like this, "We're expected to be soldiers, conquering all lands for the expanse of our people. The best way to crush anyone is to befriend their leaders and destroy them. I could never have been a spy, but they would have made me into a weapon as soon as they found out about me. I suppose it makes me luckier than most, but I didn't want it. None of us did. It's why we played the game." You pause, then, spurred by the irrational need to defend your people, you add, "When we first started conquering, it was just to find others. It was peaceful, at first. Not really conquering. It only turned into a war after a terror attack."

You remember Warrien telling you about it across the chat, telling the story like it was an epic poem simply because that was how he talked, until suddenly it was Fearran, venom covering his typed lines as he raged about the acts committed in his other side's name, for surely, anyone named Warrien was the Bringer of War. He had chosen his name only then, separating himself from his weaker side, to bring fear to the hearts of his followers. You've always thought that something involving rage, or wrath, would have suited him better as his chosen name, but never commented on it. Names were important things. If he created his for a reason, you wouldn't question it.

Equius studies you, but it's Karkat who asks, "So, what do you want? Why'd you come here?"

You pause, considering phrasing, but the words all seem to shrivel in your throat. You don't know what you want. Somewhere safe, maybe. A world where there's hope. They can't give you that, though. They would have gone to that world already if they could. You're tired. You could tell them that you want to sleep, but if you do that, they may only agree to lodge you while you rest. Then they'll send you out again, and they might end up doing that anyway. The thought sends a spike of terror through you and your words tumble out in a wild, desperate rush; "I won't go out there again. You can't make me."

Nepeta trills and it's that sound, more than your already regretted words, that makes something change in Equius's face. He softens, somehow, though he's no less sweaty, and the towel he uses to wipe himself off only seems to make it worse. Before he can speak, though, the clanging of metal has him turning with a short, irritated noise. "The mudblood is still adjusting to his new legs," he grumbles. "I am going to warn him again about attempting to navigate stairs while adjusting to the new equipment." He stands and strides out without a backward glance and Nepeta beams at you before she scampers after him.

You and Karkat look at each other. The silence is deafening. At last, he says, "There are plenty of rooms on the meteor. You can use one to get some rest."

You're tired, yes. Exhausted, even. But you still flinch, and he still looks at you with some mixture of confusion and surprise. You grimace and offer, "I was a Prospit dreamer. Without...that, Prospit, or me, or any of the others, sleeping...dreaming, it's not, good." Your shoulders curl and you shake your head. "I'm explaining it really well, aren't I?"

Karkat shrugs. It looks like he's trying to smile, but the expression is a little too stiff, like he's not sure _how_ to smile. "I know what you mean. I haven't slept much since that _thing_ " he says it with revulsion and you wonder if you should already know what it means, "destroyed our doorway into the new world and then went ahead and killed our dream selves."

It takes you a moment to grasp the full implications of his words and your gaze snaps back to him like it was pulled by one of Treckta's wires. Your mind shies away from her name and you rush to speak before you can think more of her; "You won?"

Karkat slumps. "We would have." And then he straightens, teeth flashing and arms moving, punctuating his words as he snarls, "But then one of the first guardians, or something like it, came out of nowhere and destroyed our entrance, and now we're hiding like wrigglers on this stupid meteor without even knowing why!"

You draw back at the outburst, but it's gone as fast as it had come and he curls in on himself, gaze dropping to the ground. Silence settles again and you consider reaching out to him, but the last thing you want is to wind up flirting pale. You drift through the minds of things you've become, but none of them have any instincts that would help, and your words die in your throat when you try to speak. You're not sure what you could say. A condolence? An apology? Really, there's nothing you _can_ say.

The silence is broken by another voice, but it's not Equius or Nepeta. "Kar! Have you seen-" The royal breaks off with a gasp, swings the gun toward you, and barks, "You!"

You dive off of the couch, which is cleanly torn by the blast. You point at him from behind the couch and look at Karkat, who had leapt to his feet at the highblood's arrival. His hands are out and for a moment you think they must be moirals, but he doesn't shoosh him. Instead, he shouts, "Put the gun down, Eridan!"

For how straightforward of an order it is, Eridan doesn't ask questions. He doesn't actually put it down, but he loosens his grip on it so that it's pointed at the ground instead of at you, which you appreciate. You peer around the couch at the two and when Eridan tenses again, you blurt, "Not saying it's a bad idea to shoot space things, but I would very much like to not be one of those things."

Your voice seems to surprise him, his eyes and ears both widening, but the gun stays down. You take that as a good sign and sidle away from the couch, carefully keeping your hands lax and harmless looking at your sides. "Can we start over?" you ask hopefully. "I'm Lyllani."

Slowly, Eridan draws himself taller. The gun vanishes and he raises his chin. "Eridan," he says imperiously. "Eridan Ampora."

Behind you, Karkat makes a satisfied noise and Eridan shoots him a vaguely offended look. With that, the tension is broken. It's not perfect, but it's a start, and no one has kicked you out yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Lilies are considered to symbolize the restored innocence of a soul after death.


	3. Chapter 3

You know as soon as you open your eyes that you're asleep. You don't bother looking at the writhing shadows around you, as familiar as they are you hardly need to, and instead focus on orienting yourself. If you're in one of the bubbles, you can't tell; the distant sky isn't that opalescent sheen that the bubbles usually are. It looks like you're in your room, though you're not sure if it's right to call it your own yet.

You remember Karkat- skies, you hope that wasn't a hallucination and you've just fallen asleep in space again -taking you to a room. It had been large and empty, too big with not enough light. Karkat left, grumbling under his breath, but Eridan hadn't rescinded his judgement about you being a very dangerous enemy and stayed in the hallway. You had ignored him, spitting random things from your sylladex until a few lamps had been produced, and you'd arranged them in the corners where they eliminated the worst of the shadows.

Then, too tired to poke at your sylladex's unpleasant arrangement anymore, you settled against a wall that was no softer than the others but certainly more tangible than empty space and fallen asleep. It had been a bad decision, of course; you never liked to dream, even before you fused with your dreamself, and you shouldn't have allowed yourself to sleep in such unfamiliar territory, anyway.

You shouldn't have stayed on the meteor. You shouldn't have even stopped. As soon as the purple blip registered, you should have gone the other way. You-

The shadows creeping across your skin, turning troll-gray into something black and twisting like a void, scatter when you realize that they're there, that they're the ones whispering in your ears in a voice that's almost yours. You groan and bury your face in your arms, shutting your eyes tightly. Even in a dream, you can't get proper rest.

Even though your eyes are closed, you can see your Denizen. She's emblazoned against your eyelids, even though she's dead and you're half-dead and reborn again. She was impossibly huge, unfathomable like the legends say gods are. Her voice, claxons and melodies to match the song of your world, rings in your ears. Cerist, her name had been, though you don't know if she actually told you that or if it was something you just  _knew_.

"Well," says a voice, and your head shoots up, body already shifting and warping as you fall into the familiar body of a meirax even as he continues, "This isn't quite how I envisioned it going, but I honestly can't complain."

You look up at Jountos, your claws digging into the ground and your words like acid in your throat. He grins, too wide and with a twisting snarl to his face. He's a kinti, of course. He was always a kinti, even  _before_ , and he'd told you once that it was easiest to hide as a kinti. Maybe his eyes had been a little too shiny to be kinti-yellow, but they were a giant people, and he, whose mutation allowed him to grow and shrink unlike any other telun, could become a giant to trump them all. Thick spines trail down each of his six arms, smallest on the lowest arms but no less sharp, and they protrude from his back, standing straight up in what you once would have called posturing but now, after what he became, you can't name.

There are silver flecks on the spines and you don't let your mind linger on them, even as you feel the strain in your claws from when you tore him open, the stick in the pads of your paws where even the most smoothly flowing blood couldn't quite escape. His eyes are white with death, though that does little to reassure you considering the disdain, hate, even, that he stares down at you with. He's so much larger than you could ever be, will ever be, and you hate it.

A growl rattles from your throat, a mixture of meirax and troll and a dozen other things you might be able to name if you thought about it more, but you don't let yourself move away. Testing you, because what else could he be doing, he takes a slow step closer with his two front feet, though the back four don't move at all. You don't budge.

"You're scared of me, aren't you?" he purrs. More spines, though you don't know how there can be more when there are already so many, rise through the red of his god tier uniform. A piece of the fabric slips from a spine, but you can tell at a glance that it had already been torn and was simply waiting to fall.

You did that, you realize, and if there was any doubt in your mind to which Jountos he was, it's crushed. This is the one you killed. This is the one that may be called the Alpha, the one that survived longest in your almost doomed timeline.

"I know you can talk, Lyllani," he continues. "We're all freaks here, remember?"

You find your voice and lie, far less steadily than you'd like, "You aren't real. This is a dream."

Jountos throws back his spined head and laughs to the ceiling, where shadows shaped like curling limbs, like the darkness in the void of space, curl and embrace his amusement. "Is that what you think?" he asks when he looks back at you, and indignation rises in you when you realize that he really, truly  _does_ think that you don't know this is actually him. Was Warrien really the only one who could tell, who listened, when you had grasped more than you were meant to?

Then the indignation shrinks away when he smirks, spines clicking together and whining on the metal walls. "Oh, no, little one. You might be dreaming, but I'm as real as you are. And I  _promise_ you, we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon. Maybe you'll decide to take me up on my offer if I...haunt you enough."

He laughs, like he just said something incredibly brilliant, and for a baffling moment you wonder if he doesn't know what he is. He must not, or he wouldn't still be so tattered by the damage you did. You remember...someone, someone who wasn't you, her face hovering just out of your memory though her sorrow is almost tangible. She told you how she died, and showed you where there was no wound. She had accepted her death, she had explained, but added...what?

You want to chase the memory, sink your teeth into it until it clears, but then Jountos's claws scrape on the wall and you flinch back before you can stop yourself. You regret it in an instant, but he's already smiling, slow and leering, like he's already won.

He reaches for you, the same arm that you remember healing moments before the hope you'd still held of winning the game was truly crushed, and you recoil. He is too big to truly flee from, though, and a blade-like talon grazes your cheek with a burst of fiery pain and then

You wake.

For a moment, you can't move. The spot he touched- cut -burns and the skin around it tickles. Your shoulder is pressed uncomfortably against the wall and when you move, first to scan the room for shadows, then for him, you find that your arm is silver. You briefly wonder if you managed to sleep deeply enough to slip back into your true form, but then you realize that, while there is a covering of silver, there is no black skin beneath what would be silvery fuzz.

You push yourself upright and look at the silver pooling on the ground as it slides from your arm, where you'd been cushioning your head. Your fingertips brush over your face and you flinch when you feel the gash there. With a shudder, you press your palm to the gash and will it to heal, aware of the flickers of the Life sigil in the corners of your vision as your skin knits itself shut.

As soon as it's done, you vigorously rub your face and try to breathe evenly, as if you can convince yourself that Jountos didn't truly cut you. You reach for your sylladex, already leery of what the Jinx modus will produce, but it must be in a better mood than usual because it simply spits out a bright orange shirt that you'll likely never wear again, considering your god tier uniform's quirks. You wipe your face again, just for good measure, then press the shirt to the blood on the ground and watch as the silver seeps into the orange fabric.

You're tempted to look for a mirror as your return the shirt to your sylladex, but you can practically  _hear_ the modus asking, "What mirror?" in Pelleon's smug voice.

You wish you'd pushed more to get it fixed, but Pelleon had only shrugged when you asked, saying, "Really, Lani, you can just sit here while the adults work! You'll be just fine without it."

You climb to your feet, checking one last time for signs, and glance at the walls where Jountos's spines had touched just to assure yourself that they're untouched. With a nod, you walk to the door. It whisks open in front of you and you pause, only a little surprised to find Eridan standing there. He lifts his gaze from his husktop and goes still, blinking at you.

"What?" you ask, arms twitching as you fight the urge to rub your face.

For a moment, he does nothing, then, with an incredibly put out huff, he takes a step toward you. A mirror bursts from his sylladex and he presents it to you with such a flourish that you half expect it to produce a bird of some kind in a grand magic trick. When nothing comes out, you accept it, briefly surprised by its weight. That makes sense; it's a hand mirror, but its metal, and there's something like a seahorse engraved on the back of it.

When you flip it over and catch sight of your reflection, you immediately register that something isn't right even though you can't tell what. You immediately check your throat, but your hair is still long enough to hide the scars there. You remember the face Veritan made when you came back in your new uniform with your new scars, like his whole world had suddenly collapsed around him. Then you focus on your face, first on your mismatched, mutant eyes, eyes that would have gotten you killed or worse twice before you played the game, would have ended your life before it could truly begin if the odds hadn't been in your favor.

Then your gaze drops to a thin golden line beneath your blue eye. You almost drop the mirror, your other hand flying up to catch it before Eridan can even finish his distressed warble, and focus on your form. Nothing changes, even though the false guise of a troll should be planting itself over the thing that is impossible, impossibly, a scar. It wasn't created by the game, not like the ones peppered across the rest of your body, hidden by your clothes, so it shouldn't be immune to your Slyph status like the ones that were meant to happen are.

"This isn't supposed to happen," you say, and hate that your voice shakes. You rub the scar, like that will make it go away, and move to reach for your sylladex even though you don't have anything in it that you can use to communicate. Even if you could pull it out, the only one still alive that you know wouldn't become frantic at the mere _idea_ of you being injured is Warrien, and there's no guarantee that he'd answer even if you sent him a direct message.

It doesn't matter one way or another because a whole desk shoots out of your sylladex, you and Eridan both dropping to avoid it before it smashes into the wall and falls to the ground in a broken heap. The two of you stare at it and Eridan jumps when you demand, "Why would I have a _desk_ in there?"

The desk doesn't answer. Eridan doesn't, either, but he does follow you when you approach the desk and nudge it with your foot. It appears to be empty, not to mention bare wood. The desk you had back home, though you're sure nothing remains of it, had been painted with stars and planets and signed by you and Veritan. You sigh and shove the desk back into your sylladex, deciding to deal with it later. That done, you turn to Eridan, who eyes where it had been with distaste.

Offering his mirror, you ask, "Do you know anything about coding? My sylladex is locked in a Jinx modus."

Something you don't recognize flits across his face and he scowls, snatching the mirror. "Never heard of it. What kind of person locks a modus in, anyway?"

You smile despite yourself, and a surge of fondness sweeps through you as you reply, "Pelleon. He was our Rogue of Space. He said it was supposed to teach me something and keep me out of trouble, but I think he just thought it would be funny. He was really good at coding and that kind of thing."

Eridan pauses, casting you an appraising look. "He didn't make it out with you?" He hesitates, then, like he doesn't really want to say it, adds, "Was he important to you?"

Your smile falters, then drops away completely. "Yeah. He was." You don't want to say more, but Eridan's still watching you, waiting, so you continue, "He would have survived. At the end of it all, I mean. When all our enemies were dead. But he'd been injured and I failed him." You touch the Life sign on your uniform and Eridan's gaze drops to it, his fins half flared.

You tug at a lock of your hair, then, remembering your other desire, ask, "Do you have a spare husktop? A code for one would work, too. I had a coutan, they're multilingual devices, but it exploded. They, um, aren't actually supposed to do that, but..." You shrug. "That happens a lot around me."

The aggression suddenly floods from Eridan, his fins folding. Without them, he looks younger. Smaller. "I know the feeling," he grumbles. "The mustard blood can probably help you with your modus. Come on."

His cape snaps and his scarf whirls around him as he spins and stalks away without waiting to see if you're following him. You do anyway, pausing when he enters a room with an alchemitizer inside. He grumbles at it, not even approaching the keyboard, though you're not sure if there _is_ a keyboard, so it might be different from the one you used, then kicks it.

With a mechanical cough, a husktop pops out. You aren't sure what to make of that, but there are probably plenty of ways that they work so you can't really judge. Eridan shoves the device at you, turning his face away from you as if that can negate that he's giving it to you. You accept it without a word and he stalks past you again, heading toward a transportilizer.

You follow, holding it under your arm instead of placing it into your sylladex. He steps on the transportilizer and vanishes and you follow, landing in a room full of computers. Trolls sat at a few, others milling about the room, and there was a pile of bicycle horns in one corner of the room. Karkat was across the room, squinting at the screen of a troll with shiny red glasses.

You catch sight of a creature on the screen, structurally similar to a troll but not much like a telun, and you slide into its form for a moment, filing away the information you gain for later examination, then return to your troll body. Eridan is making his way to a troll with a double set of horns and you pick up your pace to close the distance between the two of you.

When you get closer, you realize that the troll is wearing glasses, one with a blue lens and the other with a red lens, and a moment after that, you find that his eyes match. You stare in awe at the eyes that are almost like yours, even though you know that his mean that he's likely capable of using psionics. It's a death sentence of sorts, just like yours. The screen in front of him looks like Pelleon's usually did; lines of programming skittering across it.

"Hey, mustard blood. The alien-"

"KK already told me, fishface," the other troll interrupts, with a rather unfortunate lisp helped by some disturbing teeth and a split tongue. "And I don't care."

"Hi," you say, and for a moment his shoulders go tight. Then, slowly, he turns and glowers at you, surprise flashing in his eyes for just a moment when you make eye contact before he seals it under a scowl. "He brought me to you so I could ask you a favor." You reach into your sylladex, where the only thing that ever comes when you ask for it falls into your hand. You offer the sylladex to the seated troll. "My sylladex was hacked and I can't manage the modus. If you could fix it, I'd appreciate it."

He takes the disc and it changes in his hand into something that resembles a bug. He turns it in his hands, then closes the file he'd been working on and fits the bug against his husktop. Immediately, a black screen pops up and bright green letters scroll across. Even without looking, you know that they read, SmokingTrickster has invited you to a chat. Accept? Y/N

When the troll doesn't react, you say, "Pelleon programmed the lock, and it's a lot like talking to him. I tried to convince it to let me use my sylladex, but it doesn't believe me when I tell it he's dead."

The yellow blood hummed under his breath and clicked the Y. The screen split, the chat staying open on one side while on the other side, the code making up the AI was on the other side. He sat back, staring at it, then grins and declares, "This guy is crazy."

You smile back. "Yeah. He was."

An alert rings on the chat screen and you and Eridan both look over the other troll's shoulder to read, Excuse yOu. UNless you are AddIng a /bRilliANt/ tO that crazy, I am insulted!

The troll blinks and looks sharply at you. "He can hear us?"

You nod, then grimace and shake your head. "It's in your husktop. Anything your cameras or speakers pick up, or anything that's in your files, it can see."

TechnicAllY, what is happening is that I /am/ your [husktop]. Rare that I hear a word I don't know. What are you?

The troll sits straighter. "Trolls. I'm Sollux Captor. That's fishface." He gestures at Eridan, who snarls at him.

I See That LYll Is asking you to break my awesome lock. I cAnnOt imagine why she would ever  
Wait.  
Is the camera on this MesseD up or is that a scar?

You groan, raising your hand to hide the scar even though you know that there's no point in hiding it. The program has probably already taken a dozen pictures of it and sent them to the group chat that you know exists, devoted entirely to watching over you. They'd added Warrien to it, but removed him as soon as they realized he would tell you everything that was discussed on it.

ReAllY, LYll? Are you picking fights? Did you deserve it? Was it the fishface? I am SeeIng records of a conversation saying someone fitting his description shot at you.  
Also, the one cAllED KK Did noT block Veri, Veri blockEd himself but since he did nOt tEchnicAllY exist it made the system glitch, resorting to the system's last record of him.

You glance over at Karkat, then return your gaze to the screen. "I didn't get into a fight. I don't want to talk about it. Can you just start taunting Sollux about your superior intellect, or something?"

Sollux makes a noise of displeasure, mouth opening, but pauses when green letters say, ActuAllY, Mr. MismatCh hEre might be able to do it. I'm checking out some of his work and I have got to say, I am impResseD. This kid built loads of viruses to kIll EveryoNe eVen before the game began.

You feel that he's a bit too impressed by that, but it's other concerns that make you say, "Don't dig around in his files."

You can almost see Pelleon rolling his eyes as his program replies, You act like I am some kind of perv, JeeZ. If he dies and I run into him, I wIll Pry /then/. I am respectfUl lIke that.

You groan into your palms and almost wish that Pelleon was alive so that you could strangle him. "Okay," you say. "I'm done. Eridan? Is there a, a, cooking place? I can't think of the words. I'd like to get food from somewhere."

Eridan heaves a sigh, but nods and walks back to the transportilizer. You spare one last glance at the text in Pelleon's colors, then hurry after him.


End file.
